Bear v. Shark

by Chris Bachelder

  The angry tattered man says, “A shark never sleeps.”

  He gets up in the reporter’s face. He jabs a greasy finger in the reporter’s chest. He says, “If the shark sleeps, it will drown.”

  Curtis says, “Advantage: Bear.”

  The waitress says, “Some coffee or dessert?”

  The guy says, “Not so fast, little camper.”

  Curtis says, “The shark never sleeps. So it must be tired and groggy. Think about how you feel if you haven’t had any sleep.”

  The guy is trying to pass a napkin note to Mr. Norman. He says, “I’m not sure I see what you’re driving at.”

  Matthew says, “But bears sleep half the year.”

  The guy says, “That’s true.”

  The waitress says, “Leave room for cream?”

  Curtis says, “Exactly. The bear burrows into the soft clay and hibernates during the winter months. Thus when he is awake and fighting sharks, his temperament is strong and well rested.”

  Mrs. Norman says, “Their temperament.” It is difficult to sit well in the booth’s squishy seat. Difficult, not impossible.

  The guy from the other booth, the jerky one with the urgent secret napkin note, says, “I’m starting to see how it all comes together.”

  Curtis smiles and does a little dance in the booth.

  Matthew says, “Hold everything. Thomas Edison didn’t need any sleep.”

  The guy from the other booth says, “Well, how about that? I guess I knew about the ponytail and the spectacles — well, and the kite, of course — but the insomnia is a new one for me.”

  A cute little red-haired girl is ogling pies in the dessert case. Her shirt says, “You ever seen a shark in a circus?”

  Mrs. Norman says, “Is it technically insomnia if you don’t need the sleep?”

  The guy says, “What do you mean by technically?”

  Mr. Norman gazes out the smog-stained Television windows at the interstate, where a team of migrant workers is now installing a billboard featuring a picture of Jesus on the cross. Looks like maybe Jesus has a personal trainer. The hues are sexy, the composition is avant-garde. Jesus has nice pecs, a strong chin, a swarthy complexion. The billboard says, “Jesus loves the Truth and hates litter.”

  The crackling intercom describes the baby as bald and dirty. Tiny overalls. It’s just a matter of coming to the register to claim the baby.

  The waitress says, “Insomnia sort of implies you’re trying to sleep but can’t.”

  The guy says, “But you can be hungry and not eat, can’t you?”

  The waitress says, “Yes, you can.”

  Mr. Norman says, “Thomas Edison said, ‘Hey, Watson, come here I need you.’”

  Mrs. Norman says, “No, honey, I think you’re thinking of Alexander Lloyd Webber.”

  Matthew says, “Edison never slept and he invented electricity. Lack of sleep shows a certain resolve and strength of constitution, whereas hibernation indicates a slothful and indolent nature.”

  The guy from the other booth says, “Well, now, I knew the little man’s argument was not airtight, though I could not quite find the flaw in it myself.”

  The secret note says, You are not alone. There are others like you. If you keep your eyes open you will find us.

  The waitress says, “How about a Bear Claw or a CubCake?”

  Curtis says, “A bear would rip Thomas Edison to shreds.”

  The baby just sits between the mints and the toothpicks, worried.

  35

  Oliver Wendell

  v.

  Sherlock

  Watson was Frank Lloyd Wright’s assistant?

  If I was Watson, I’d just tell Sherlock if he needs me so bad, he can come in here. Fricky-frack, I’m busy with my own projects.

  Who would win in a fight between Oliver Wendell Holmes and Sherlock Holmes?

  Would both of them have normal-size heads?

  Yes.

  No outside help from assistants?

  No.

  No hidden weapons? They both wore those kind of long, flowy outfits.

  No.

  Sherlock, then.

  I disagree. I think Ollie would unleash some wicked justice on that fictional sleuth.

  Hey, who did Igor assist?

  Wittgenstein.

  Most people think that Wittgenstein is the name of the monster, but if you read the original translation, Wittgenstein is actually the name of the doctor.

  What was the monster’s name?

  Tonto means stupid.

  They say Lindbergh had an assistant.

  36

  The Shark’s Erogenous Zone

  Mr. Norman is not fully attuned to the conversation or the booth Television or the red-haired little girl’s shirt (the back of which says, “Shut your big fat bear trap”) or even the sexy clever billboards outside his Television-screen-shaped window.

  Mr. Norman is thinking about having sex with a shark. Listen, not in an indecent or bestial way. Not at all. In Mr. Norman’s mind it is tender lovemaking — respectful, consensual, aquatic. He imagines the tough rubbery feel of the scaleless skin. He imagines a wordless embrace. He imagines stroking the fins and gently tonguing the gill slits, which he imagines to be the shark’s erogenous zone. The warm salt water laps against their bodies.

  Seaweed, coral, Spanish galleons, glittering doubloons.

  The shark arches its back, moans through razor teeth.

  This is not filthy. This is genuine and beautiful, but Mr. Norman knows that nobody would understand.

  How could they?

  37

  www.lindberghhoax.com

  Greetings, Net nomads and nonbelievers. You are perhaps weary and full of misgiving and your road has been arid and unlined with fruit or stags. At this point you require the hearty, salty dinner of warriors. The dogma is like so much plankton for the likes of us! You need the bloody meat of TRUTH!

  Take heart in that you have found for the moment a haven and a sanctuary on your arid travels. The very fact that you’re here is a solid indicator that your mind is unfettered by the dross and shale emitted like so many pretty little sparks from our major media outlets. You refuse to simply swallow the party line and masticate the sweet candy that our “government” gives us. Good for you. The likes of such as you are a dwindling breed of nomads in the arid world and you are to be commended.

  Now on to the substance of our meal. Below are some of the major facts in this case, any one of which would cast grave shadows of unreliability on this “solo flight” across the “Atlantic,” but taken altogether they fairly shatter the myth like so many shattered eggs.

  FACT: Records show that the Spirit of Enola Gay, the “plane” that “Lindbergh” supposedly used, was not registered with the U.S. Bureau of Aviation in 1927. It is as if the flying machine didn’t even exist!

  FACT: Recently declassified Soviet spy satellite photographs reveal that “Lindbergh” took a shortcut and never actually crossed the “Atlantic.” What he may in fact have crossed is part of Canada and the Baltic Sea, a feat which had been done before.

  FACT: In 1952, a Dutch woman came forward and said that she was on board the Spirit of Enola Gay, which severely calls into question the “solo” aspect of the “flight.”

  FACT: There’s no way you can have enough fuel for that.

  FACT: Just when this case was about to be blown open by unfettered investigators in an arid world, that’s when the whole “kidnapping” thing with the “baby” happened, thus projecting a large smoke screen over the dubious feat.

  Safe travels, Net nomads. Remember: In the arid world a traveler needs more substance than the opium of so-called “bears” and “sharks,” the corporate tools that confuse and distract us from the TRUTH.

  38

  The Catch of the Day

  The guy from the next booth over walks the Normans out to their Sport Utility Vehicle in the parking lot of Ma’s Old-Fashioned Interstate Tavern.

  Choppers say, �
�Buzz.”

  He says, “Gosh, it’s been real nice getting to know you all.”

  Curtis says, “Likewise.”

  The guy says to Mrs. Norman, “You have a nice family. Those kids are sharp.”

  Mrs. Norman says, “Thank you. The school says they’re just average, but I’ve always suspected they are gifted and talented.”

  Mr. Norman unlocks the Sport Utility Vehicle and gets in the driver’s side. He’s still thinking about making love to the shark. He thinks it might make a good cable TV movie, sort of a they-came-from-different-worlds thing.

  The guy says, “They say the computer shark and bear are more real than real ones.”

  Curtis says, “Yeah, more lifelike.”

  Mr. Norman starts the Sport Utility Vehicle. He thinks it could be called The Catch of the Day or something clever like that. And maybe the shark’s baby would get switched with another baby. Or maybe a human woman would agree to have the shark’s baby but when it came time to deliver she just couldn’t stand to give it up.

  Mrs. Norman says, “Apparently they’re just like a bear and shark, except even more so.”

  Matthew says, “Yeah, but let’s not forget the first time around.”

  There would be a court scene. The lawyers would say the shark was unfit to be a mother. Witnesses would get badgered. There would be a lot of objecting. Your Honor, I don’t really see how that’s relevant here! That stern guy who plays Turk on Bear Beach could play the judge. Some objections would be sustained and others would be overruled.

  Curtis says, “That was human error.”

  Matthew says, “Still.”

  The guy says, “They say they’ve got it all worked out now.”

  A policeman with a stun gun jerks a half-naked guy out of the dumpster in the parking lot. He (the policeman) says, “I wouldn’t try any cowboy shit, mister.”

  Mrs. Norman has her hand on the handle of the passenger side door. Matthew and Curtis lean against the Sport Utility Vehicle. The guy from the next booth over rocks from one foot to the other.

  The guy twitches and rubs his palms on his pants.

  The ending would be sad, probably, but also laced with hope and redemption. Mr. Norman thinks maybe he could serve as an adviser on the film.

  Mrs. Norman says, “Well.”

  The guy says, “It was really great spending time with you.”

  Mrs. Norman says, “OK, boys, let’s get this show back on the road.”

  The guy says, “Let’s keep in touch.”

  Matthew and Curtis climb into the Sport Utility Vehicle and put on their safety belts and headphones. Mrs. Norman sits in the passenger seat, shuts her door, and rolls down her window. She says, “You take care.”

  The guy says, “Thanks for the CubCake.” He walks over to the driver’s side and taps on the window. Mr. Norman rolls down the window. The guy says, “Drive safely.” He (the guy) sticks his hand into the SUV and when Mr. Norman shakes the guy’s hand, a note falls into his lap.

  Mr. Norman says, “Thanks.”

  The note says, We can help you.

  Mr. Norman pulls the Sport Utility Vehicle out of the parking lot. The kids and Mrs. Norman wave to the guy and the guy waves back.

  Plaintiff, closing arguments, plea bargain.

  Mrs. Norman says, “He sure was nice.”

  Mr. Norman says, “Your witness, Steve.”

  39

  Pseudo-Context

  OK, hands on your buzzers.

  A: In his long-out-of-print book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, this shrill cultural critic wrote, “A pseudo-context is a structure invented to give fragmented and irrelevant information a seeming use. But the use the pseudo-context provides is not action, or problem-solving, or change. It is the only use left for information with no genuine connection to our lives. And that, of course, is to amuse.”

  Q: Who is Neil Postman.

  40

  Bear v. Shark I:

  An Insider’s Story

  An excerpt from Swimming with the Sharks: My Two Years at HardCorp, by Alex Reid, as told to Wendy Timlin:

  Of course, people will just remember the bear’s head, which is a terrible shame because we gave the world a miracle that night in Los Angeles. People in my generation never dreamed that they’d see a real fight between a bear and a shark. There have always been cock fights, of course, but I’m talking about the real thing — computer-generated, three-dimensional projection. I’m talking about action so lifelike, so realistic, that it makes real bears and sharks look like cartoons.

  For years, Bear v. Shark was just a speculative question, and people thought it would remain that way for a long time. “Who would win in a fight between a bear and a shark?” was no different than “How many angels would fit on the head of a pin?” or “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” or “Who was the better president, Martin Van Buren or William Howard Taft?” But we caught up to it. We tracked it down. We used technology to transform an intractable Zen-like riddle into a spectacle, an event, an experiment — something you could see, hear, and bet money on. This was magic. This was science and technology at their best, utilizing knowledge and equipment to solve problems that once seemed insoluble.

  But we rushed it, we got greedy. We got intoxicated by our own power. A week before the show I knew we weren’t ready, and I told my supervisor, Mr. B., but he said there was no turning back now, and I suppose he was right. None of us slept for days. We had a dress rehearsal, a simulation duel, in a secret underground site in New Mexico. Our natural setting was perfect, evocative of both beach and national park. And the animals looked fantastic. Their teeth needed to be whitened even more, but they were beautiful, and we all felt like gods. But we were brought back down to earth pretty quickly when the bear and the shark wouldn’t fight. They “refused to engage,” as the corporate memos said later. We waited and waited, but nothing ever happened. It’s like they didn’t even notice each other. After three hours, we shrank our setting by half, hoping to force an encounter, but those animals just had no interest in fighting. When the bear fell asleep and the shark lunged at one of the stage-hands, we called the thing off and started emergency planning.

  We had six days until the show. We pulled all of our programmers off the Van Buren v. Taft project to help us out. But there are millions of lines of code and they are all strung together, tangled in a Gordian knot. When you start messing with code, you alter everything. As we used to say, when you change the paw, you change the claw. So we got them ready to fight, but the bear’s head was altered in the process. It was minimized, as we programmers say. It was minimized by about 40 percent and I know people were upset, but honestly, when the lights went down and the music came on, we didn’t know if the bear would even have a head or if we’d have a hairy shark or what.

  We gave the people a miracle. We gave them magic. We gave them fourteen electrifying seconds, and I for one am not ashamed of that.

  41

  A Sage and Beneficent Despot

  Out on the interstate.

  The dashboard of the Normans’ Sport Utility Vehicle (SUV) says, “Forget your worries, everything is fine.”

  The dashboard says, “You just leave everything to me.”

  It (this award-winning, first-in-its-class dashboard) says, “Listen, don’t fight it. Look at me. Look at me, surrender yourself, we’ll all live forever.”

  This dashboard does not tolerate anxiety or cynicism or ambiguity in the cockpit. Does not allow it. Transforms it with the stare of 100 beguiling eyes: the gauges, dials, and meters. Melts it with decimal-point precision, an unflagging vigilance, a terrifying will to power, and an ever-appropriate use of Light: crisp and bright and heedful of automotive risk where such prudence is called for, subtle and soulful elsewhere.

  This is Warm Science — hard data and soft, Scandinavian design.

  This dashboard forever changes the way you think about dashboards. This dashboard, in consumer t
ests, is consistently rated “the most trustworthy dashboard on the market.”

  The dashboard says, “Everything is as it should be,” and the dashboard is right.

  The meters, in earnest resolve, carry on their quiet rivalry (speedo v. odo, thermo v. tacho), each made better, more precise, through the crucible of healthy competition. Each device respects but does not fear the others. Each device is just happy to be there, just wants to make the most of the opportunity, just wants to thank the Lord for its God-given abilities.

  The gas gauge verifies that the vehicle’s barrel-chested fuel tank is, how shall we say, nearly full. The oil pressure gauge is quick to point out that the oil pressure is remarkably normal. The thermometers gather data at three different sites: outside the vehicle it is Hot (97 degrees); inside the vehicle it is Comfortable (73 degrees); the engine? Well, the engine is running royal-blue cool, no problem there.

  This dashboard knows the way to Las Vegas.

  The battery is charged, the headlights are on, the time is 3:38 P.M. PST (Pacific Standard Time), the speed is 74 miles per hour, the four-wheel drive is off (but ready to be on), the air conditioner is on (but ready, whenever called upon, to be off).

  That orange light there means the tires are unlikely to explode.

  This dashboard knows: twenty-four grains to a pennyweight, three scruples to a dram, twenty quires to a ream. A hogshead is two barrels and a township is thirty-six square miles, you got to get up pretty early in the morning to put one over on the dash.

  The phone, the map, the CD player, the cruise control — like the very best waiters or retail store employees, these devices do not hassle or cloy, but are immediately available if their services are required.